


dirty secrets; empty memories

by Anonymous



Series: coke in the midas touch [5]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Brainwashing, Broken Bones, Captivity, Crying, Daddy Kink, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Drug Use, Eating Disorders, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gaslighting, Graphic Description, Hallucinations, Kidnapping, Lingerie, M/M, Mind Manipulation, Molestation, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pain, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Scars, Self-Harm, Sex, Stalker, Violence, Vomiting, hobbling, not between malcolm and jt, to be clear most of the bad shit is between malcolm and the antagonist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:55:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23044372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: "I'm here to take care of you. You're my good, sweet boy, and I'm going to help you. Do you want that, Malcolm?""Please," he begged. "Please, just - make it stop.""We have to make it so you can't run away. Running away from your nightmares isn't going to help you, Malcolm, it's only going to hurt worse later. I can help you.""Okay," Malcolm said, accepting - trusting. "Okay."
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/JT Tarmel
Series: coke in the midas touch [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1645549
Comments: 5
Kudos: 50
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Chapter 1

“Malcolm, please don’t argue with me,” Mother was saying in that same desperate way she always used to get under his skin. Considering how often she employed the trick, he probably should have become immune to it by now, but it still somehow worked. He sighed and rolled his eyes, and she took that as her victory - and she was right to do so. He was going to give in to her demands, even if he continued to protest. “I’ll send a car. Put yourself in the car and don’t make me send Adolfo to come and collect you personally. You won’t like it if you do.” She made a kissing sound and ended the call, and Malcolm let his head droop. 

The last thing he wanted to do today was go and have brunch with his mother. She tended to use brunch as an excuse for particularly difficult conversations. He was positive she’d heard, somehow, that he and JT were seeing each other - even if it was still very new and very casual and they hadn’t told  _ anyone _ . And if Mother knew, then Gil either already knew or would know soon enough, and Malcolm didn’t want to deal with that. He was perfectly capable of doing his job without having to worry about Gil giving him some sort of speech about it - or, god forbid, paperwork. He  _ wished _ he didn't have to go. 

Still, he knew he’d never get out of this now, so he stood from the barstool and abandoned his now-cold mug of coffee. He glanced over at the bed and thought of normal people and briefly wished he could indulge in just crawling between the sheets and going back to sleep the way they could. He wished he could invite JT to actually stay one night, could curl up with him and fall asleep rather than strapping himself to his bed so he didn’t nearly throw himself out of the window - again. They hadn’t done much at all together, partly because Malcolm was reluctant to fall asleep beside JT after, and partly because he didn’t want to fuck and leave if he were at JT’s place, or fuck and make JT leave if they were at his. This was why he’d never really done relationships before - they were complicated, logistically. One night stands were so much easier, simpler. 

But he liked JT. Just because they’d begun dating didn’t mean JT treated him any different at work, which was nice. He didn’t have to worry about JT asking him for special favors or shouldering too much of a caseload because he was just a consultant, and JT was the "real" detective. JT was funny and sarcastic and brutally honest and didn’t put up with anything other than what he was absolutely comfortable dealing with. Malcolm knew that JT would just _ tell _ him if he was being annoying or too much or overwhelming or any of those things. He had before. And that was a relief, because Malcolm didn’t want to deal with passive aggressive, subtle clues and hints that he missed too often because he wasn’t trying to profile his partners when he was with them casually. JT still didn’t like that it had become habit for him to do so, that Malcolm still had a lot of trouble relaxing around him. 

They were working it out, though, and Malcolm had to admit - a cheery smile on his face - last night had gone particularly well. They’d gone to a Cyclone’s game on Coney Island, and while Malcolm had zero interest in baseball, it had been endlessly entertaining, and the beer wasn’t terrible. They’d found a small sports bar after and had some burgers and slightly better drinks, and after a hasty makeout and some less than innocent groping in the back of the car Malcolm had called - he refused to ride in regular cabs on principle - he’d headed inside. It would have been better if they’d spent the rest of the night together, too, but Malcolm didn’t exactly have a guest room, and it was exactly an option for him to share a bed with anyone. It made intimacy difficult but not impossible. He was determined to get beyond the blowjob he’d managed the singular time JT  _ had _ come home with him, but he’d have to think about it a little. JT seemed a little bit more traditional, anyway, even if he’d picked someone like Malcolm - who was about as far from traditional as it was possible to get. 

He pushed the thoughts of JT and sex from his mind, for now, and focused on gettind dressed for brunch with Mother. With any luck, Ainsley would be there as well as a buffer, and he could worm his way out of saying anything of importance. He wasn’t beneath throwing Ainsley under the bus again if necessary. It was summer and warm out, so he opted for the light pink italian linen. He could imagine JT’s slight mockery at his wearing pink and it made him grin to himself in the mirror. He eschewed a tie, as he usually did, and stepped into his shoes before heading downstairs again, grabbing phone and wallet and keys before heading out to the street. The car service Mother employed would only wait for him for so long, and then he’d have to call another one and it would be an ordeal. 

Thankfully, the car was still waiting. He slid into the backseat. The driver didn’t ask, and Malcolm didn’t tell him. Mother hadn’t said, which really wasn’t so much of a surprise for her. She liked to spring unpleasant surprises on him like this. He tapped out half a dozen messages to JT and deleted them all, tried a seventh time, decided it worked well enough, sent it, and then decided to pester Gil to see if he had any active cases Malcolm could help with in an emergency so he wouldn’t have to go to brunch. No such luck, sadly. 

When the car pulled to a stop, Malcolm climbed out of the car, then paused and frowned. He walked to the driver’s door and tapped at the glass, but the car pulled away without answering. He looked up at the house, eyebrows creasing. It didn’t look like a restaurant, but his mother had invited him to her friends’ homes before. She usually warned him first, though. He tucked his phone into his pocket and headed up the steps and rang the bell. 

A few moments later, an older gentleman - late fifties, early sixties, salt-and-pepper hair, brown eyes, laugh lines, bespoke suit - answered the door. “May I help you?” Posh accent, well educated. Clearly wealthy. Likely part of his mother’s social circle. 

“Ah, sorry, this might be an odd question but is Jessica Whitley here?” Malcolm asked, offering his best butter-won’t-melt-in-his-mouth smile. 

“You must be her son, Malcolm,” the man said, smiling in that way that meant he’d heard of Malcolm before. He waved him inside. “She’s not here, no, but please, come in out of the heat. I’ll call a car for you.” 

Malcolm stepped inside, grateful. It  _ was  _ hot out, even if it was still early. There was a ridiculous heat wave hitting the city, and it had to be nearing the nineties already. “Thank you, I appreciate it. I’m not sure what happened with the driver.” He offered one of his best fake laughs. He tugged his phone from his pocket. “Let me just call her and -”

He didn’t see the man come up behind him. He didn’t notice the needle in his hand. He just felt the sharp prick in his neck and the sudden rush of heat under his skin, and then he was slumping to the floor - not quite unconscious but certainly incapacitated. 

“Now, now, Malcolm,” the man said with a beatific smile, “there’s no rush for you to leave. Stay a while.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the first chapter was nice and easy and tame. this is where the fun starts.

He never quite lost consciousness, but there were moments of darkness when he found himself moved to a new place or shifted somehow. His focus was reduced, catching and sliding away like oil on water. 

Ketamine? Perhaps. 

He watched as the colors in the paintings spilled from their frames and splattered on the floor. He felt it stick to his skin as he was dragged through it. He touched the dust in the air and felt it fill his lungs. The sunlight blinded him for a long, long moment when the man dragged him past a window. He squeezed his eyes shut against it and watched the explosion of kaleidoscopic colors behind his eyelids, his fingers tracing patterns over his shirt to match the swirls and waves. 

He opened his eyes when he felt the man lift him from the floor. "Y'r strong," he slurred, his brain still trying to analyze, to nitpick, to build a profile. 

The man smiled, taking it as a compliment. "I like to think so," he said, a small laugh at the end of the statement. He was  _ flirting _ . "It takes a lot of work to keep fit for you young men, I must admit." Bashful, but not embarrassed, not really. 

Malcolm knew when he was laid out on something soft because he was once again distracted by the sensation against his skin. The clinging silk clashed with the soft cotton, but it wasn't bad - just so, so different, and he  _ had  _ to touch them both, feel them against his skin again and again. 

"It feels nice, doesn't it?" the man asked. Malcolm nodded thoughtlessly, rubbing his face against the silk under his cheek, the stubble scraping lightly. "Wouldn't you like it feel it everywhere?" 

Malcolm didn't answer, didn't have words right then because they wouldn't come to him. He  _ didn't  _ want that, not really, because a part of him recognized what it would mean, but he didn't fight when the man tugged his shoes from his feet, or when the man began tugging at his suit jacket. He could barely feel those things because the sensation of the silk was what his brain had focused on, was so intent on. That and the colors. Most of the room was dim and gray, but there was a painting near the bed. 

It was pretty. A little bridge over a small pond with a lot of tiny, colorful flowers in the water and trees all around. Malcolm didn't know much about art. The colors swirled and danced in the frame, moving as if they were alive. He thought of  _ Fantasia _ and wondered where the music was. The dancing hippos. 

"You're so lovely," the man said, distracting Malcolm from the painting and the music he could almost hear in his head and the colors. Malcolm rolled his head to the side and pressed his lips together. He felt nausea roil in his stomach painfully. 

"Mm," he whimpered, not quite willing to open his mouth. 

"Oh, did it make you sick?" the man asked, and Malcolm felt his hand in his hair. "That's all right. Ketamine does that to most people." He retrieved a small, kidney-shaped dish from the table by the bed. "Here, sweet boy. Thank you for telling me. We don't need you making a mess of yourself so soon, now do we?" 

Malcom couldn't focus on the words, couldn't process them. He was too busy puking up a thin stream of coffee and bile. He'd puked up most of the burgers and beer he and JT had shared yesterday in the middle of the night after a particularly brutal nightmare, so he didn't have anything left now. He heaved again and again, despite bringing nothing up, until his body collapsed back onto the bed and didn't seem to want to move again. 

"There you go," the man said, rubbing Malcolm's arm. "Now just relax, hm?" Malcolm nodded slightly, staring blankly at the ceiling. 

It didn't stay blank. He could see his father there, smiling down at him. He could see Watkins, knife in hand. He screamed and thrashed and fought, trying to get  _ out _ , get  _ away _ , but he was held down - he was always held down in the worst ones. He yanked viciously at the cuffs but Watkins had gotten both wrists this time, not just one. Thick metal manacles that held fast and refused to let go. 

He watched Watkins plunge the knife into his side and twist the blade, watched him yank it out. Watched him stab him again. Watched as Watkins gutted him like a fish, shoved a hand inside him, and pulled out his insides, letting them spill on the floor. 

He gagged and choked, but he didn't have anything to puke.

He couldn't feel his body anymore. He could only see what Watkins was doing to him. He could only watch as he was dismembered piece by piece, each limb tossed into an old wooden trunk that was so, so familiar. 

He didn't think it was ever going to end. 

"I'm here to take care of you." Watkins' mouth didn't move, but Malcolm heard the words all the same. "You're my good, sweet boy, and I'm going to help you. Do you want that, Malcolm?"

"Please," he begged. "Please, just - make it stop." His whisper was soft, broken. He didn't know if he'd said anything. He tried to nod, but he couldn't tell if he was doing that, either. 

"We have to make it so you can't run away. Running away from your nightmares isn't going to help you, Malcolm, it's only going to hurt worse later. I can help you." 

"Okay," Malcolm said, accepting - trusting. "Okay."

He heard the thump and the sickening crunch. He looked down and saw… something his eyes wouldn't focus on. The man gently turned Malcolm's head to focus on the painting once more. It was nice, gentle. Soothing. 

Another crunch. 

Something was wrong with that, but he didn't know what, and he couldn't really care about that. He looked at the flowers instead, and smiled. 


End file.
